


A Rather Chaotic Harvest Day

by PilindielTheElf



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Thanksgiving, anyone remember martin the secretary, apples apples apples, i kinda ship those two after writing this, minor character appreciation, what about desmond the head steward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilindielTheElf/pseuds/PilindielTheElf
Summary: In which it is Harvest Day and Martin has to fix everything going wrong.Happy Thanksgiving!
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	A Rather Chaotic Harvest Day

A flurry of papers showered down around Martin as he shot up from his chair. He dropped his quill. Scrambling to the door, he quickly ran a hand through his hair and straightened up his jerkin. 

“My lord!” he said. He clicked his heels together, lifting his chin up as Baron Arald poked his head into the office. “What can I do for you, my lord?” 

Baron Arald smiled. He slapped Martin on the shoulder as he wandered inside. His face brightened at the plate of biscuits that sat on the desk. “Just checking in,” he said, picking one out for himself. “What’s on the agenda for today?” 

Martin jumped. He lunged for his desk, sifting through the stacks of paper to find his schedule. “Today is Harvest Day, my lord!” he said. “The festivities officially start at ten o’clock, and you are expected to make a speech. The grand picnic starts at noon, so you have a few hours of downtime before then. You will be seated with all the craftmasters, and the Heaped Platter will be providing the meals.” 

He took a deep breath. “There will be two shows. The first one at one o’clock, and the second at three. The results of the pumpkin carving contest and pie baking contest will be announced at five o’clock. You will be judging with Walter, the village constable, and Sir Rodney has agreed to be the third. At six, dinner will be served here in the castle. You will have to return beforehand to prepare. Joining you will be Sir Montague of Cobram Keep, Sir Maurice and Lady Sybil, who reigns from Norgate fief, and of course, the lovely Lady Sandra. You will be entertained by a choir and an ensemble of dancers. The day will be finished with yet another speech from you at about half past seven. Was there anything you would like to add, my lord?” 

Martin looked up. He blinked at Baron Arald’s blank expression. “My lord?” 

Baron Arald made a twirling motion with his finger next to his head. He waved his biscuit in the air. “Could you perhaps repeat all of that for me?” he said. “Slowly, this time.” 

Martin set down the paper, gulping down a big breath. He opened his mouth and began reciting everything he had just said from memory. He clasped his hands behind his back, tapping his finger to keep rhythm. “Today is Harvest Day, my lord!” he said. “The festivities official start at—” 

“You know what?” Baron Arald jutted in. “Why don’t you write it all down for me?” 

“Yes, my lord! Right away, my lord!” 

“In the meanwhile, I’m going to go have my breakfast. Drop that schedule off at my study when you’re done, okay?” 

“Yes, my lord. I will do just that.” 

Martin pulled open his desk drawer and retrieved a piece of parchment. Dipping his quill into his inkwell, he began to write. His handwriting was neat, some would say too neat. He agonized over each word, each letter, making sure it was all perfect. There was no excess amount of ink, and there was definitely no lack of it. Under his watchful eye and careful hand, there would be no mistakes. Everything would go the way it was planned. 

His door swung open. 

Martin scrambled onto his feet. His heels clicked together in an effort to make a loud clack, and he straightened his back. “My lord!” he said, almost knocking over the inkwell. “I did not expect you to return so soon. Did you need—oh.” 

He looked up to find Desmond, the head steward. His best friend. Martin relaxed, letting out a breath. He leaned against his desk and shook his head. “Good morning, Desmond.” 

Desmond was out of breath. His face was all ruddy, dark hair messily tumbling over his eyes. He grabbed Martin by the arm, lowering his voice. He whispered into his ear. “We have a problem,” he said. 

Martin frowned. “What happened?” he asked, hand going slack. 

“One of the singers is sick!” Desmond said. “We don’t have a replacement. He was supposed to lead the song after the baron’s speech.” 

“What?” Martin said, louder than he meant to. He winced. “Are you sure?” 

Desmond nodded. 

“Take me to him.” 

Martin grabbed his cloak as he passed his coat rack. Swinging it over his shoulders, he walked at a brisk pace and urged Desmond to walk faster. He put on a smile, nodding at the servants they passed. Nobody would know that there was a setback. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. Everything was fine. 

Desmond led him out of the castle and into the courtyard. Martin paid no heed to the blast of wind that crashed into his face. He pushed forward. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dark. With winter on its way, the sun was slower to rise and quicker to leave. That meant there was no time to waste. Daylight was precious. 

Running out of the castle grounds, they passed the drawbridge and dove into an array of colorful booths. The tents were red and gold and violet. They were bright, vivid colors, and they popped like a burst of fruit in the bleached morning. Orange and blue streamers hung from the posts, flowing in the wind like glittering flags. 

It was barren and empty despite the lively atmosphere it seemed to bring. There was no one around. The air held a serene quiet, peace before a day of live performances and fun games. Silent anticipation and excitement. 

Martin didn’t stop to catch his breath, pushing open the flaps of a dark purple tent. He pushed past Desmond and looked around. “What happened?” he demanded. 

“Oscar is sick!” The fair’s ringmaster said. “We don’t know what to do.” 

“Are you sure no one can take his place?” 

“We had to use our replacement to take Astrid’s place for the show. Everyone else is too busy! They don’t have time to learn the part.” 

“Everything is fine, guys.” A wheeze came from the corner of the tent. Oscar pushed himself up, struggling against the mass of blankets that had been over him. “I can do it.” 

“You shouldn’t strain yourself if you’re—” 

“Are you sure?” Martin spoke over Desmond. “Can you sing all right?” 

“Just get me some tea. I’ll get through it.” 

“No.” The ringmaster stepped forward. “I’m not letting you sing like this.” He turned to Martin, eyes set. “What are you thinking? We could just cancel this one song,” he said, dragging him outside by the arm. “I don’t want anyone else getting a cold because of this.” 

“But—” 

“He’s right, Martin.” Desmond placed a hand on his shoulder. “One song isn’t going to make a huge—” 

“Hey!” Martin shouted, darting away towards a lone figure. “You there! Ranger Will Treaty! You can sing, right?” 

Will looked up as Martin approached. His eyebrow rose. He had been taking a stroll before the day’s activities. “Hello, Martin,” he said. “Happy Harvest Day.” 

“Yes, yes.” Martin nodded. “Ranger Will, you can sing, right?” 

“I believe so.” 

Martin didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Will’s arm, running back towards Desmond and the ringmaster. “Here!” he said. “I found you a replacement.” 

“What?” Will pulled himself out of Martin’s grasp. He dusted himself off. “What am I doing?” 

The ringmaster stared at Will. He hummed to himself. “You can sing?” 

“Uh, yes?” 

Leaving them to it, Martin followed Desmond back towards the castle. He exhaled. “That wasn’t so hard.” 

Desmond chuckled. “It wasn’t like anything was going to stop you,” he said. “You never let anything like this cause some sort of problem.” 

“Well, there was that one time…” Martin trailed off. 

He looked up, standing at the edge of the drawbridge. Frowning, he strained his ears. “What is that?” he said. 

Arguing could be heard from the castle. They were too far away to decipher what was being said, but the fighting was clear. Sharp voices drifted into Martin’s ears, and from the sound of it, the two offenders weren’t even bothering to keep it hushed. 

Martin felt his cheeks flush hot red. He shared a glance with Desmond before sprinting up the drawbridge. “Hey!” he said. “Hey, what do you two think you are doing?” 

He slid to a stop in front of the stables. The two individuals in question spun to face Martin. To his surprise, it was a young stablehand and a member of the traveling fair. The stablehand had a panicked look about him. He seemed close to tears with a red nose and hair like a mop. The fair member, however, was angry. Her eyes were little flames, a beacon in the coming morning. She glared at Martin. 

“This fool took all the apples for apple bobbing!” she screeched. 

“It was an accident!” the stablehand said. “I said I’m sorry!” 

“But what about apple bobbing? It’s a tradition!” 

“I didn’t know!” 

“Hush it! Both of you!” Martin said. He crossed his arms. “You.” He nodded at the stablehand. “Why did you take the apples?” 

“I thought they were for the horses!” he said. Sweat dripped from the side of his head. He swallowed. “They were in the usual spot where we get our shipments!” 

“But they weren’t!” the fair member said. “You should have checked with someone!” 

“I didn’t think to!” 

“Whose fault is that, then?” 

“Stop stop stop!” Martin waved his hands in the air. A strand of his short, cropped hair fell down onto his forehead. He opened his mouth and looked for the words he wanted to say. “Let’s think this through! Are you sure we don’t have any more apples?” 

The fair member sighed. She huffed at a strand of her hair. “No,” she said slowly, drawing her words out as if what she was saying was obvious. “The cooks need the rest of the apples. They need to make enough apple cider, candy apples, and apple tarts for everyone.” 

“What if you don’t use apples?” 

Martin looked at Desmond. “What? Say that again!” 

Desmond cleared his throat. He awkwardly smiled at all the eyes that were trained onto him. “What if…” he said. “We don’t use apples. Pears? Can we use pears?” 

“But not all pears float.” 

“Then, mix it up.” Desmond inclined his head. The gears in his head turned methodically. “Use both pears and oranges. If you find apples, add them in too.” 

The fair member blinked. “That… could work.” 

“Yeah?” Desmond nodded his head like an excited puppy. “Come. I’ll take you to the kitchens.” 

Martin sighed when Desmond and the fair member went out of sight. He ran a hand through his hair. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to himself. 

“Excuse me?” the stablehand said. “Are you alright?” 

Martin waved his hand away. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine. Get back to work.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Martin quickly left the stables, headed towards the doors that led into the castle. It wasn’t until he reached the doorway did he realize the sunlight that peeked through the clouds. He spun on his heels, and his eyes widened. Jogging back the way he came from, he looked towards the sundial. 

Ten o’clock. 

The festival was supposed to be starting. Baron Arald was supposed to be making a speech. But where was he? 

A gasp tore through Martin’s throat. The hairs on the back of his neck bolted up as realization struck him like a lightning bolt. He dashed towards the castle, climbing up the steps two at a time. Pushing the door open, he yelped in surprise as he ran into someone. 

“Excuse me—oh! Baron Arald!” Martin scrambled backwards. His heels instinctively tapped together, and he straightened up. He sucked in a breath, standing at attention. 

“There you are!” Baron Arald said. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“I am so terribly sorry, my lord!” Martin said. “Some things came up, but I have them resolved now. You do not have to worry about anything.” 

“Martin, I actually—” 

“My lord, the people are waiting for your speech now. You should hurry. I will get back to writing down your schedule for you. Do not worry!” 

“Martin!” 

Martin was already scurrying along the hall. He walked straight to his office, not bothering to say a greeting to anyone he passed. His door was open when he arrived, and Martin frowned. He was sure he had closed his door. 

Walking inside, he looked around. Perhaps, he didn’t. The morning was all a blur, and Martin couldn’t remember half of the things he had done. 

He plopped down into his chair, relaxing against the soft cushions. Martin picked up his quill to continue writing. Dipping it into the inkwell, he paused. Where was his original schedule? 

Setting down his quill, he looked through his papers. He carefully fingered through each of them. Martin frowned. There was no way he could have lost it! It had been there earlier that morning. He hadn’t done anything with it, had he? 

Martin looked through his papers a third time. His heart began to pound faster and faster, hands slippery with sweat. He didn’t even hear the knocking of his door until it creaked open. 

“Excuse me?” 

Martin glanced up at the courier. “Yes?” 

“I bring a message from Sir Ellis of Aldstock Hold.” 

Martin paused. He set his papers down slowly, standing. “Sir Ellis?” he said. “I thought he wasn’t coming.” 

“That’s the thing, mister. Everything’s cleared up. He will be arriving in an hour.” 

“An hour?” Martin echoed. 

“That’s right.” 

Dismissing the courier, Martin muttered underneath his breath. He picked up his quill and began to scribble on a piece of parchment. Someone would have to warn Master Chubb to cook an extra dinner, and the servants were going to have to prepare more guest bedrooms. And from the looks of it, Martin was the only one in the castle who knew of Sir Ellis’s arrival. That meant he would have to tell them himself. 

He headed for the kitchens. The castle was quiet with the majority of people out enjoying the fair. Everyone had at least half the day off, and no one was going to waste it inside doing work. 

“Master Chubb!” Martin said, walking into the loud kitchen. He cleared his throat over the popping and sizzling. He raised his voice. “Master Chubb!” 

Master Chubb looked over at Martin. He motioned for another cook to take his spot. “Martin,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Happy Harvest Day.” 

“Sir Ellis of Aldstock Hold will be here for dinner. Be sure to prepare something for him.” 

Master Chubb frowned. He tapped at his ear. “Speak louder! I can’t hear you with all this background noise!” 

“Sir Ellis!” Martin shouted. “He will be here tonight!” 

Shooting him a thumbs up, Master Chubb waved at a handful of servants. Sighing, Martin stumbled back out of the kitchen and back into his office. He could hear the laughter and chattering from outside. The small children screamed, chasing each other and begging their parents for sweets. Many of the knights took part in the games, and the hoop throwing one seemed to have been frustrating them. Even Baron Arald seemed to have trouble with it. 

Martin shut his curtains before taking a seat. Leaning forward, his elbows landed on his desk. His eyes skimmed over all his papers, his brain empty. He yawned. 

His eyelids drooped down, enraptured by the sweet lure of sleep. His hands were the only thing holding his head up, and his whole body had powered down with the thought of rest. Sleep came to him the way a fish would bite onto a hook. Slumber was a bait too strong for Martin to resist, especially after a restless night and hectic morning. He pounced on it, and his consciousness was no more. His head landed on his desk. 

It felt like seconds before someone was prodding at his arm. Martin groaned. 

“Martin! Martin, wake up!” 

Rubbing his eyes, Martin slowly sat up. He blinked as light entered his pupils. Someone had opened his curtains. “Huh?” 

“You fell asleep at your desk.” 

Martin froze. He knew that voice. He hopped out of his chair. “My lord!” he said, bowing down. “I am so—” 

“Relax, relax.” Baron Arald chuckled. “Desmond tells me you’ve had quite the morning.” 

Martin looked at Desmond, who stood next to his window. He glared at him, but Desmond didn’t seem to be affected by it. 

“My lord, I assure you I will make it all up to you.” 

“Martin, you really don’t have to—” 

“What time is it?” Martin looked back. “Desmond?” 

“A little past two.” 

Martin nodded. “My lord—” 

“Martin!” Baron Arald practically shouted. “Calm down for a minute, would you? Harvest Day is not ruined!” 

“My lord?” 

Baron Arald dug in his pockets, pulling out a piece of parchment. “I came to your office when you didn’t leave the schedule on my desk. I took your copy of it.” 

Martin stared blankly at the schedule in his hands. “Oh.” He opened his mouth to apologize, but the baron raised a hand before he could. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Just don’t.” Baron Arald paused. “Have you ever considered taking a break, Martin?” 

“A break? My lord, are you… what are you saying?” 

Baron Arald laughed. “I’m not firing you, Martin. You’re very good at your job, and I don’t know anyone else who would put in all the effort you do. But perhaps, you should take the rest of the day off. It’s Harvest Day, after all.” 

“My lord, you really don’t have to do that. I am quite capable of—” 

“That was an order, Martin.” 

Martin’s throat went dry. He stiffened, clacking his heels together. Standing up straight, he nodded. “Yes, my lord.” 

Baron Arald nodded. He turned to Desmond. "You too." 

Desmond bowed. He smiled as the Baron exited the room, humming to himself. Elbowing Martin in the ribs, he laughed. “You can be so dense, sometimes.” 

“Really? Should I do something about that?” 

Desmond rolled his eyes. “Nevermind,” he said. “Let’s go to the fair. We can make it to the last show.” 

Martin smiled. He shuffled in his position, shifting his weight around. It wasn’t often when he had nothing to do. It was strange. But orders were orders, and Martin soon found that it was a good strange. He could get used to taking days off. 

“Okay,” he said. He squeezed Desmond’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” 


End file.
